


I Bind Thee

by AvaChanel



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22173805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaChanel/pseuds/AvaChanel
Summary: Who would have thought that anyone alive would ever be capable of making Yennefer of Vengerberg blush?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 20
Kudos: 313





	I Bind Thee

They tell you that mages shouldn’t _drink_. They — the same _they_ that liked to tell mages, and let’s be honest, all women, what to do and how to do it.

Here’s what they conveniently _didn’t_ tell you: it wasn’t that _mages_ weren’t allowed to drink; during special occasions, the Brotherhood were notorious for drinking until they couldn’t sit straight and slurred all their spells.

No, no. Drinking was just fine. Unless, of course, it was a _female_ mage. Then, it became taboo, classless, lunacy even. Only they could never come out and say that exactly, so they masked it behind the term of _mages_. All mages. But Yennefer and the other sorceresses knew better; it was the _women_ that they wanted to control, as always. Should a female mage find herself with a throat parched at a wedding ceremony, suddenly the Brotherhood recalled that alcohol, if consumed in gregarious amounts, impaired your judgement. Suddenly, the ale tasted like pig piss and was nothing of the sort a proper lady would enjoy, either. Or, really, what would the _King_ think seeing his mage behaving in such an unprofound manner? 

Yennefer ought to have rolled her eyes and scoffed at such a prehistoric notion — what did it matter when the King himself was as drunk as a skunk, one hand buried between a wench’s thighs beneath the dining table whilst his face disappeared into a goblet sloshing with wine? All the while, his new, unfortunate wife was none the wiser to the wretched creature she would be forced to share her bedchamber with until death do they part.

Nevermind the _mages_.

No one ever paid any mind to the mages of the court during a wedding feast, anyways.

Well… _almost_ no one.

Really, Yennefer ought to have noticed him from the moment she’d heard that familiar whine of the bard’s voice, matched only with his painful playing of strings on his equally whiny lute. Wherever Jaskier was, the witcher was surely not far behind, or so she’d _hoped_ , anyways. Maybe the warm ale she’d been nursing most of the evening _had_ impaired her judgement after all, if only a little. But damned if she’d ever admit to that aloud.

Suddenly, the beer wasn’t remotely as interesting as the white-haired witcher eyeballing her from the corner of the room, and Yennefer couldn’t help the way a selfish little smile tugged on her lips.

Mayhaps the night was yet to be salvaged, she thought.

And for once, she was a little bit grateful for the presence of the ever persistent bard who had built a reputation singing of the witcher’s many conquests over the years.

Yennefer took one more swig from her jewel-encrusted goblet, draining it of the foul beverage in the most unladylike manner she could manage, and decided she’d indulge her former lover once again. For reasons, she convinced herself, that were not purely selfish and that wouldn’t somehow result with him warming her bed for the night.

“Has anyone ever told you how charming it is to watch you silently brood at these sorts of functions?” she teased when she was near enough, her voice thick and lush like velvet when tinged with alcohol.

The pair didn’t make any eye contact — they really didn’t need to. It was enough that they stood near one another, in the unassuming shadows of a distant, marble pillar. It amused Yennefer greatly how much Geralt attempted to blend in and failed to do so, the deliciously tight-fitting black leather of his outfit a clean contrast to the sparkling gold of his eyes and snow-white hair.

Strange how she’d almost been disappointed that there hadn’t been any fangs the first time they’d met. And yet still, he stirred the embers of a fire in her belly in ways no other man — or woman — ever could. She’d have killed everyone in the room if it meant getting to feel his grizzled cheek against the inside of her thigh once more, his expert tongue buried within her core as she writhed beneath him in a pleasured frenzy. The thought alone was enough to make her throat go dry, and the coy smirk on Geralt’s face made her think that maybe he knew _exactly_ what she was thinking.

“Has anyone ever told _you_ that mages aren’t supposed to drink?” But even as he spoke, Geralt’s unnatural eyes lit up with a warm, teasing glow — both rare and only ever reserved for her, so far as she knew. Like the glaze of honey in the summer sun. It did not escape Yennefer’s notice that his shoulder subtly brushed against her arm, like he had intentionally leaned down into her. A touch of simplicity, but yet she was overcome with the strangling sensation of an unbidden possessiveness; that she was claiming him as _hers_ , should any other in the vicinity get an idea to take him from her.

“Are you going to tell on me?” she whispered darkly, her voice a husky breath against the sharp line of his jaw as she turned to face him.

Maybe she was slightly intoxicated, or bored. Or perhaps she was just extremely aroused and it had been one, two…three years too many since the last time she’d felt him inside of her. Or anyone, for that matter. She was chagrined to admit it, but there simply was no comparison to what the witcher was capable of as a lover. Everything else had paled, left her wanting and unsatisfied, and Yennefer found herself always coming back to _him_. Like now. They were partially hidden behind the pillar, away from most prying eyes, and she’d pushed herself up against him, her chest heaving as she reached up to play with a strand of his pale, unruly hair. Even through the fabric of her clothes, she could feel the undeniable hardening and straining of her nipples, aching for his touch the way flowers opened to the sunlight.

Geralt caught her arm by the wrist before her fingers could reach him, his heavy grip both firm and gentle at the same time. “Not unless it’d make you leave this place for good and stay by my side forever,” he replied in his trademark rough, low voice, scratching against her skin in all the lovely ways she’d spent one too many nights reminiscing about.

Yennefer raised a sultry, dark brow, and what she said next, she blamed entirely on the alcohol; “Is that a marriage proposal, Geralt?”

She searched the amber storm of his intense gaze, and when she found instead a cold seriousness that made her blood both burn and sing beneath her skin simultaneously, she shrugged his touch off like he was frostbite. “You’re a bloody fool if you think I’d give this all up for _you_.”

Unlike most men, Geralt didn’t quiver under her icy tone. “There’s not a whole lot to give up, it seems.”

Yennefer scoffed for real this time. “Funny, I once knew a man who’d asked the same of me almost a lifetime ago. Grand romantic gestures, mediocre pleasure, all in the guise of a boring life, to die slowly and in misery. Do you know what I told him, too?”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitched as he regarded her, unblinking and impossible to read. She was in his face when she answered her own question, “I told him I’d sooner _die_.”

She wasn’t sure why there were tears burning the backs of her eyes, or why she was always suddenly emotional and vulnerable around Geralt, but she ought to have known better than to play with fire. After the way they’d ended things — the way _she_ ended things — they’d never go back to the people they once were. The foundation of their relationship had been based on a _lie_ , and so how could she ever trust that what he felt for her was real and not anything more than a passing fancy? A trick of magic? As her whole life had been orchestrated.

Yennefer turned to flee, using the shadow of her long, black hair as a shield so that he couldn’t see her lip quiver, or the instant regret at her words. But Geralt had caught her by the wrist again, and he’d pulled her flush into his arms. By some saving grace, he’d let her rest her face into the crook of his shoulder, and no one seemed to notice the witcher and the witch huddling together in the corner of the room.

They were but an insignificant detail in the fold of things, like he’d taken her to blend _with_ him. Geralt’s fingers were in her hair, the calluses getting caught in the silken strands as he combed them through gently.

“Hm…,” he hummed, and his chest rumbled beneath her, making her stomach tie itself into knots the way it always did with him. “You’re using a different scent.”

Typical Geralt, changing the topic whenever it didn’t suit him. But this time, Yennefer found the quality endearing. Or maybe she was just too much of a coward to truly consider the magnitude of his proposition. Nor the fact that now, she might have seriously been considering it.

“Got to keep you on your toes somehow,” she jested, trying to mask her sniffles so that he wouldn’t hear her.

She had long since sworn that she’d never be caught crying before a man ever again. Pushing back only when she was sure that she hadn’t smudged any of her makeup, Geralt still held her by the waist fastidiously, his hands protective against the small of her back and keeping her in his arms. An intimate touch that made her lick her lips in anticipation of what it promised, and it was then that she knew for certain she’d be taking him to her bedchambers before the night was through.

Yennefer gazed up at his face and found that he’d accumulated a few new scars since the last time they’d seen one another. She wondered, briefly, if there were fresh ones beneath the collar of his shirt as well.

“Did you mean it?” she swallowed, certain that the lump in her throat was pride. Yennefer couldn’t help the way her heart swelled at the sight of him. “Would you…would you really want to suffer an eternity tethered to the likes of me?”

Even to her own ears, she sounded weak. Desperate. Pathetic. But she _had_ to know.

Geralt brought her hand to his lips then, his eyes never leaving hers even as he placed tender kisses along her knuckles. “You have a funny definition of suffering. But the answer is — and always has been — yes,” he purred against her. The look he gave her — like he could undress her with but a stare — made a tantalizing shiver run up her spine.

_I bind thee…_

A silly ritual she recalled but vaguely. Empty words full of empty promises, they’d never meant anything to her, no matter how many times she heard them uttered. And now…

Now, she knew what Geralt had bid the Djinn do. How he’d irrevocably bound their fates together. Yennefer couldn’t help it, how funny and ironic and stupidly romantic the witcher’s gesture had been. So she laughed aloud, a bark that echoed and yet no one heard in the bustling ballroom. Tears were in her eyes, only they were of joy and foolishness and love instead. Geralt watched her with a perplexed expression, thick brows crossed and head cocked to the side as he’d frequently done when she’d been parading around as a Knight’s mage on a fool’s errand many moons ago.

“Was your final wish to _marry me_ , Geralt?” Yennefer had to dab at the spots beneath her eyes before the tears ruined her makeup, but she still couldn’t stop mocking his foolish ideas.

Once the witcher had come to understand that she was laughing _at_ him, he let her go, his hands falling away like petals, and Yennefer felt oddly exposed without his protective warmth. But she would not be deterred, even when he made to walk away from her, solemn in mannerism, with the corded muscles of his back and shoulders hunched forward. Geralt of Rivia walked with a sigh.

“So, is this how you treat your new wife then, is it?” she called after him, knowing better than to use a feeble attempt at strength to restrain the almighty witcher.

Every mage worth their salt knew, deep down, that their true power lay within _words_ , and this rang all the more true when the pale-haired man stopped dead in his tracks at her persuasive insinuation. 

“Just going to leave her here to endure this wretched celebration on her lonesome, somewhat intoxicated and extremely aroused, with no hint of relief in sight. What a terrible husband you’ll make, indeed.”

Yennefer grabbed another goblet from an unobserving servant walking past, and gulped down the putrid drink before remembering why she _wasn’t_ drunk in the first place. By the time she’d lowered the cup to wipe at her chin, she found the White Wolf staring at her, conflict ever visible on his stern features.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Yennefer pressed, swinging her hips as she strutted towards him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said, “Take me to bed, darling. My feet ache and I’m not in the mood to climb so many stairs.”

“But, Jaskier-…”  
  


“Is _not_ your lawfully wedded wife, so pay him no mind,” Yennefer finished for him, dismissing the playful bard with a wave of her hand. Jaskier was busy singing the night away and would likely find himself in some poor maid’s chambers come morning.

Until then, the burly witcher belonged to Yennefer and Yennefer _only_. The rest of the world be damned.

With a grunt and a sigh and a subtle roll of his eyes, Geralt scooped up the sorceress like she was but a feather, with Yennefer letting out a tiny, startled yelp that she’d never thought she were even capable of. She clung to him tightly nonetheless, sharp, painted nails digging through his leather, but if the witcher felt any pain, he didn’t show it.

“As the lady commands it,” Geralt stated gruffly, making to take her away from all the festivities of the night. “So it shall be done.”

* * *

**FIN**


End file.
